The Case of the Stone Angel
by CertafiedGeek
Summary: A celebrity disappears from a Dr. Who convention in a very peculiar way. Exists within the Sherlock universe and not the Whoverse, but I figured the setting makes this count as a crossover.
1. Chapter 1

_[AN: Hello everyone! This is a fanfiction present to my sister, who was fed up with the overwhelming number of truly awful Sherlock fanfictions out there. If you have come to this fic hoping to see characters get makey-outey with each other, then I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere. On the plus side, David Tennant is in it (not the Doctor, the actual dude). Anyway, I hope you enjoy my silly little fanfic.]_

John reached past the bag of dead snakes to the jar of strawberry preserves, before closing the refrigerator door and sitting down at the least cluttered bit of table he could find. Molly had to wait until Monday night before unclaimed corpses could be distributed for scientific experimentation and/or Sherlock's curiosity, so John's only thoughts as he spread some jam on his toast that morning were, _It must be Sunday_, and, _Wonder if the paper's arrived yet_.

John was reading the paper when Sherlock came down the stairs in his robe and pajama pants. Before Sherlock could open his mouth, John said, "Nothing above a 5 this week, I'm afraid."

"Of course there isn't," Sherlock said, "you'd have put the paper on the table in anticipation of springing the news on me, instead of reading the entertainment page."

Sherlock took an apple out of the refrigerator, sat down on the sofa and started to eat. _Oh no_, thought Watson. Sherlock had three gears: on a case (no eating), contentedly experimenting while waiting for a new case (eating while looking through a microscope), and bored (eating on the sofa). When Sherlock was bored, it was only a matter of time before something got broken, shot, stabbed, melted, or exploded. And, sure enough, John had barely started the entertainment section when Sherlock reached under the couch, produced a bottle labeled "sulfuric acid," and un-stopped it.

"Give me the acid, Sherlock," said John as he put down the paper.

"_Why?_" asked Sherlock bitterly, without taking his eyes from the bottle. He started to swirl its contents.

"Sherlock, if you don't hand over the acid, I'm throwing out that bag of snakes in the refrigerator."

Outside the window, red and blue lights flashed.

"_FINALLY_," said Sherlock, and he tossed the bottle in John's direction as he rushed to the flat's door. John fell back over his chair in an effort to get away from the bottle, which smashed onto the ground. He checked his clothes quickly to see if any acid had splashed onto them, before he looked around the edge of the chair. His first reaction was to sigh with relief, since the hardwood floor was not sizzling or smoking. His second reaction was to mutter irritably, since this meant that the bottle had been empty the entire time. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him.

"Wanted to know how normal people react when a glass container of dangerous contents gets tossed toward them. Sometime later we'll try it again with a stopped bottle, but it'll have to wait, I'm afraid." Sherlock opened the door and looked down the steps. "Kidnapping. Why?" said Sherlock.

From the sound of the footfalls, LeStrade was about halfway up the steps before he stopped and, after a pause during which LeStrade decided against asking how Sherlock knew it was a kidnapping, said, "Well, that's for you to figure out, isn't—"

"I mean why come to me. What's special about it?"

"It's a celebrity," said LeStrade.

"Not interested," said Sherlock, and he slammed the door shut.

"It's not just that!" John heard LeStrade yell, as he continued up the steps, "He's disappeared!"

"John, would you kindly read through the door to commander LeStrade the definition of kidnapping? I'm going to go hang my head out the upstairs window and—"

"There's a tape of the event that was left by the kidnapper."

Sherlock paused, obviously debating whether hearing LeStrade out would more or less interesting than whatever he was planning to do with his head out the window. John, in part to get back at Sherlock for that acid trick, crossed the room and let LeStrade in before Sherlock could say anything. "Mind the broken glass, Greg," he said, as he gave Sherlock what he hoped was a withering look. Sherlock did not wither.

"Thank you, John," said LeStrade, "Now, do you have a VHS player?"

"No, because this isn't 1995," said Sherlock bitterly, as he glanced longingly up the stairs.

"That's what I thought," said LeStrade, as an agent neither John nor Sherlock recognized appeared behind him in the doorway, carrying a VCR. "Over there, Harrison," he said, pointing toward the television. "Now, while Harrison hooks this up, I'll fill you in on everything else we know."

LeStrade carefully walked over to the sofa, sat down, and took out his notepad. With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock stepped onto a chair facing him, sat with his knees near his chest, and gave LeStrade the "I'm listening, so you'd better impress me" stare. John went into the kitchen for the brush and dustpan to start cleaning up the glass.

"Our missing person's name is Mr. David Tennant—" LeStrade started.

"Wait, really?" said John from the kitchen.

"Yes, big tv star for— What is it, Inspector Space-Time? Some nonsense like that."

"It's called Dr. Who, and he's not on the show anymore," continued LeStrade patiently, as he handed Sherlock a picture of the kidnapped party, "but he was at a convention this weekend dedicated to it. Last night at 8:00, he finished a panel on the space ship his character uses on the show, and he managed to slip away from the crowds quietly. At 8:03, he took a picture with a fan just outside the parking structure which contained his car. At 11:30 last night, his wife came to the police station to tell us he didn't come home when he said he would. Ordinarily we tell wives to give it 24 hours and then come to us again, but the D.I. on duty at the time has a bit of a soft spot for the show and it was a quiet night, so he agreed to check things out. Sitting on top of one of the cars on the second floor, nearby Mr. Tennant's car, we found this."

LeStrade reached into his bag and pulled out a very old-looking video camera in an evidence bag.

"No prints, not so much as a hair on it for DNA, but it was still filming when the detective inspector picked it up. Are we ready to play, Harrison?"

The man nodded as he pushed the tape into the vcr and pressed play. On the screen, in horribly grainy quality, was a stretch of parked cars. The camera was positioned such that only the width of about six parking spaces could be seen, only two of which were filled with cars. Suddenly, whistling could be heard somewhere in the parking structure ("Oh Danny Boy"), and from the left entered David Tennant, twirling his car keys in his hands. Suddenly he stopped, looking at something off to the right of the camera view.

"Oh that's clever," he said, "That might be the best cosplay I've seen all day."

The lights flickered, then turned off for about a half of a second. When they came back on, someone that was dressed as a grey stone angel appeared on the right side of the screen.

"Well that's terrifying. Have you got a friend working the lights? I hope you're not one of those creeps trying to accost me and… tie me up or something."

The lights went out for another half second, then briefly flickered on to show the figure within three feet of Mr. Tennant, before they went out again.

"Got you," said a woman's voice, there was a whirring sound as a second passed and the lights went on again. Neither figure was there on the screen.

"It's all just an empty car park from here on out," said LeStrade, as he stopped the tape.

"Huh," said John simply.

Sherlock placed the tips of his pressed-together fingers over his lips. "Did you ask the wife about the significance of the angel costume?"

"Didn't have to," said Lestrade, "It's a gimmick from the show. In Dr. Who, there are aliens called Weeping Angels, which can only move when no one is seeing them, or else they're frozen in stone. If you let one touch you, you get transported back in time-"

"Yes, thank you. What kind of car had the camera on top of it?"

"A pick-up truck. We ran the plates—"

"Could've told you not to bother," said Sherlock, "If the truck owner had any connection with the kidnapper, they would've parked it with the front facing inward, rather than outward, for a wider camera shot. The kidnapper wanted us to see this; she would've wanted it to be perfect. Instead she was working with what she had. How about the camera?"

"Originally owned by a Mr. Allan O'Malley. He claims he sold it at a garage sale about a month ago, doesn't remember to whom. His alibi checks out, and his story seems consistent with the quality of the camera."

"And I suppose you want me to tell you how they managed to disappear," said Sherlock, sighing, "Good God, I'm going to need a chiropractor someday for all the stooping I do to explain these things. The kidnapper chloroformed him with that bit of cloth you can see in her right hand the second time she appears on-camera, then jumped beside the car with his unconscious body."

"Actually, we did think of that," said LeStrade, with a touch of pride, "We've gone over every single area with a fine-toothed comb where they might have jumped off-screen. Not so much as a smudge of that grey make-up or a fiber from his tee-shirt, and there's no evidence of a clean-up either. They've just vanished."

"Nobody just vanishes, LeStrade, and the day I trust Anderson's combs to be fine-toothed is the day the Prime Minister announces his affair voluntarily. Any request for ransom to the family?"

"None, but we've tapped Mrs. Tennant's phone in case one comes up."

"With an act this grandiose, they'd've called by now. No ransom, left camera, showy. Hm."

"Give us the address of the car park. We'll call a cab," said John.

"No we won't. Still a six," said Sherlock, but he was still staring intently into space, his fingertips pressed together and over his mouth.

"This is a seven and you know it. Besides, you can come if you like; I'm going anyway."

"Why? What do you care?"

"Well," said John, hesitatingly, "I just think this case is—"

"Oh right, I forgot. You love that bloody show."

"Not love, just like," said John defensively.

"Whatever the reason I don't care," said LeStrade, standing up, "I'll text you the address as soon as I leave, John. You can go in about five minutes. I'll try to get there before you and convince Anderson to get a cup of coffee."


	2. Chapter 2

The car park was much what you'd expect a car park to be: lots of cement, the faint smell of fumes, and fluorescent lighting on every level. Every level, that is, except the third; all of the lighting fixtures against the wall had had their tubes neatly removed, and the fixtures above the center aisle between the rows of parking spaces were all extinguished except for three odd looking lamps.

"Remote-activated lights," said LeStrade as they came out of the lift, "You wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention. Bright enough for lighting if you're walking under them, but dim enough to keep most of the level in the dark."

"You could've told us about them back at 221B," said John.

"Why, so you could be sure it wasn't actually a weeping angel? Thought you'd've figured that out when the angel didn't come out of the tv to kidnap _you_."

"So you're a Whovian as well, eh?" said John.

"Nah," said LeStrade, "but my daughter is. Her nightmares got so bad that I had to go buy a nightlight, write a special note from the Doctor saying how he made it angel-proof just for her, and put both outside her bedroom door one night while my wife was reading her a story. I played the Tardis whooshing sound and hid in the linen closet while she came outside and opened the letter."

"Did it work?"

"Like a charm, until the bulb burned out a month later. Lifetime guarantee my foot."

Sherlock, of course, was listening to none of this exchange, and was instead focusing very intently on the floor.

"We've already checked for make-up smudges, Sherlock," said LeStrade.

"That's why I'm checking for grey rubber instead."

"What?" said LeStrade.

"Unless the kidnapper was eleven feet tall she would have needed a ladder to put in those lamps. Ladders usually have grey rubber on their feet. But… no, of course. Ladders draw attention. She just climbed up on her car. Also, I take it you wouldn't waste my time if the security camera pointed at the entrance and exit to the lot were functional?"

"The owner of the car park says it was vandalized yesterday by what he assumed were some kids," said LeStrade, "The repairman was supposed to come tomorrow to fix it."

Sherlock switched his gaze from the floor to the ceiling, although he wasn't looking at the lights; he was looking at the stretch of ceiling between them.

"The camera we found was set up in spot number 384. Mr. Tennant's car is in 393, if you'd like to take a look," said LeStrade.

"As soon as I show you how they disappeared," murmured Sherlock, whose attention was clearly elsewhere. He continued to walk the length of the hall with John and LeStrade in tow, before stopping and pointing up at the ceiling. "There. Get one of your men to put an evidence marker next to it. Let's see the car now."

Sherlock took off in the direction of spot 393, leaving LeStrade and John to stare up at the spot he indicated on the ceiling. All that was there were some thick wire cables. They looked like they'd been pulled down from the ceiling a little, but otherwise there was nothing extraordinary about them.

John left LeStrade to tell his men to start processing the cables and hurried over to Sherlock, who was staring very intently inside the open door of an expensive-looking car.

"Sherlock—" he started.

"Early forties, married with two children with another on the way. Fond of the zoo, the theater and either the countryside or the park, probably the former since he'd be less recognized there. Recently had a haircut, probably wasn't fond of it since he was examining it in the rearview mirror before he got out of the car. Had a fight with his wife two days ago, but nothing serious enough to merit buying anything more than a few roses to sort out. Right-handed, Scottish, and a mild-to-strong aversion to spiders."

John paused. "How on earth did you know he has a mild-to-strong aversion to spiders?"

"Who doesn't? Now," he said, spinning on his heel and setting off toward the other end of the lot, "the interesting part."

Sherlock approached the agent who had just finished setting up the ladder underneath the cable and quickly climbed up to the ceiling.

"We haven't processed this area yet," said the agent indignantly.

"Just needed you to get the ladder, thank you," Sherlock said curtly, then added, "I can't have you contaminating the scene."

Totally oblivious to the consternation this caused in the officer, Sherlock took out his pocket magnifier, examined the cables, and removed something from them with a bit of tweezers before handing it to LeStrade in a small plastic bag.

"Fiber. I'd do the chemical analysis myself, but, as I lack access to your crime lab's database of the chemical composition of various fibers, I'm afraid Anderson will have to try not to botch the job."

LeStrade was about to ask what on earth Sherlock was even looking for or expected them to find in the fiber, but decided against it. They had a system: Sherlock would either tell them as soon as he was done examining and deducing, or tell John once they were out of the crime scene and John would text that information to LeStrade. In the meantime, Sherlock was back in his own world of evidence, and LeStrade knew better than to interrupt him. The world's only consulting detective closed his pocket magnifier and placed it on top of the dip in the cables. It briefly slid down the small, shallow slope before coming to a rest. It was angled toward the end of the left hand row of parking spaces. Sherlock hopped off the ladder, and strode over to the last space.

"Yes, of course," he said, "easiest possible getaway. The spot at the end, closest to the ramp."

Sherlock took a scraping of a part of the cement floor, turned to LeStrade and said, "The kidnapper's been careful about not leaving prints, but unscrew the lightbulbs and check the metal casing. Unlikely someone this cautious will be so careless, but I overestimate criminal intelligence every day. Where can we find the wife and the last person to see him in person?"

"Mrs. Tennant went home to look after their children early this morning," said LeStrade, turning toward the officer in charge of evidence collection to hand her the fiber, "She probably won't be awake for another few hours. The fan who took the picture with him outside the car park lives just across the street, number 201, Apartment 4. I'd suggest talking to her first, then getting the hell out of here. In about ten minutes, I'm going to a press conference to discuss Mr. Tennant's disappearance, and it'll be a matter of seconds before the fans start swarming the car park trying to play Poirot.

LeStrade turned back around. "So are you gonna tell us how—"

Sherlock and Watson were already halfway to the elevator. _Well, _LeStrade thought irritably, _can't say I didn't try to warn them._

_[AN: If you didn't get the reference, google "Hercule Poirot." Or, better yet, go and read some of Agatha Christie's mysteries featuring him. My favorite is _Murder on the Orient Express. _Anyway, I like to think of him as the Sherlock universe's equivalent of referencing Sherlock Holmes, fictional detective._]


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't until they'd arrived at the doors to the apartment building across the street that Watcon finally asked, "So are you ever going to say how they managed to disappear from the tape, or am I going to have to tell LeStrade you said it was magic?"

Sherlock pressed as many buttons as he could next to the door (although he avoided apartment number 4's buzzer), and said into the speaker, "Sorry! I locked myself out again." Instantly the door was buzzed open and Sherlock made his way over to the staircase.

"Sherlock," said John in exasperation as he climbed up the stairs behind him, "We could have just buzzed the witness and told her who we were."

"Better if she's not expecting us. The shock will better reveal any embellishment's she's made, and considering she's a fan, there's likely to be a few."

"Sherlock—" said John, a little impatiently, "I have to tell Greg some-"

Sherlock stopped, tilted his head up to the ceiling, closed his eyes and sighed, before turning around, facing John.

"She used a pulley," he said quickly, "There was a rope tied around her waist which trailed behind her, was looped over the cables, and was attached to something in her truck that could, by remote, pull up the rope. When the lights went out, she chloroformed Mr. Tennant, grabbed him, and let the rope hoist them up to the ceiling by the cables, safely out of sight of the camera. That was the whirring sound on the tape that we heard."

John opened his mouth.

"Isn't it obvious how I knew that?" said Sherlock responding to John's question preemptively, "'I hope you're not one of those creeps trying to accost me and tie me up or something.' He paused just before 'tie me up,' which means he was reacting to something. He saw a rope; it was only a matter of finding out where it came from. The only reason we didn't see it on the tape was because the camera shot was cropped to above their waists.

Now, there is a witness upstairs, and the longer we wait the more likely it is she will make up fanciful additions to her story about how he looked worried or scared or was reaching out to her for help since they shared a connection or some rubbish like that, which will not help us in solving this case, so go ahead and text LeStrade what I said, but _we need to move on_."

John closed his mouth, took out his phone out of the pocket of his windbreaker, and followed Sherlock the rest of the way up the staircase. Just before they got to the door, Sherlock turned to John and said, "Time is essential in kidnapping cases, so don't ask too many questions. We need to get in and get out."

Sherlock put up his fist, but before he could knock on the door, it opened to reveal a gaggle of teenaged girls.

"So sorry! We just couldn't wait for you to come in!"said the blonde holding the door open.

"Oh em gee! You're really him! You're Sherlock Holmes! And you're that guy whose face I recognize but I can never remember your name!" said a brunette.

"John Watson, Emily! Jeez, they must think we're total idiots now," said a girl in a blue wig.

"Astute observation. I need to speak with…" Sherlock quickly scanned the room, before turning to the blonde girl, "you, Valerie."

"Oooh! He knew my name!" the blonde girl squealed. She was tall with watery blue eyes, a weak chin and a pin that said "Are you my mummy?" with a picture of a gas mask on it.

"Do me! Do me!" said Emily. She was dressed as the fourth doctor.

"Only in your fanfiction," Sherlock muttered audibly as he walked into the kitchen, John and Valerie in tow. John was impressed; a month ago Sherlock would have told her exactly how many times her boyfriend had cheated on her, or where she was hiding her prescription painkillers. John's "how to deal with people" talks must be having some effect.

It turned out, at least as far as John could tell, that Valerie didn't know much. She had walked home from the convention last night, spotted Mr. Tennant heading into the garage, and stopped him for a picture before he headed inside. She showed them the picture on her iphone; totally typical by John's estimation.

"Valerie, I want you to think of any physical details you can possibly muster about your meeting. Things that stood out, things that didn't, anything," said Sherlock.

"Well," she said, her face screwing up in concentration, "he seemed… worried. Like, it was almost as if on some level, he just _knew_ I'd be the last to see him, and wanted to share one last special connection with a fan who—"

"Thank you," said Sherlock, and John could tell he was agitated as he turned to leave without another word to anyone else in the room. In the hallway, John asked, "Should LeStrade know that David Tennant looked like he knew he was going to be kidnapped on the way into the car park?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Sherlock, "people who look impatient can easily be mistaken for a variety of emotions, and no doubt that girl tied that into her own ridiculous schema. He was impatient, likely due to the fact that he was rushing on his way to an appointment when that picture was taken."

"How'd-"

"In the picture, his watch was on a loop tighter than usual, indicating he probably had it laid out next to him on the table at his panel, which means he was watching the time closely and putting it on hastily when he got up to leave. The question is whether he was just meeting his wife, or someone else."

"He might've just used the loo."

"No, the watch was too cheap. He clearly doesn't care much for expensive watches, but he chips in just enough to get them up to the second-lowest standard of quality, which is waterproof up to 10 meters. Not much use for scuba diving, but sufficient for those who don't like to take it off when they wash their—"

Sherlock had just opened the door onto the street, and finished, "hands," as he looked out at a vast crowd of people, most of whom had clearly come from the convention center since they were nearly all in various cosplays. Sherlock quickly closed the door, all the while looking at the ground, paused, then looked up at Watson and said, "John, how far can you jump?"

"Um, dunno, maybe two meters if I had a running start. Why?"

"That's not good enough, said Sherlock as he quickly walked over to the stairs, "we'll have to find something to use as a bridge."

"Bridge? Sherlock—"

"No, they might spot us on the roof. We'll have to disable the alarms on the fire exit—"

"I am not—"

"No, that leads into the side-alley, clearly in view of the street."

"Sherlock!" John shouted, and the detective finally stopped muttering and looked at him. "Are you seriously suggesting we jump from rooftop to rooftop in order to avoid facing a few Dr. Who fans?"

"Of course I'm suggesting it. How long do you think it'll take before they recognize me and start the, 'Oh Sherlock won't you pretty please help us find Mr. Tennant, and while you're at it let me smudge your magnifying glass with my grubby fingers and…'"

But for once, it was John's attention that had trailed off. He had stopped listening as soon as Sherlock had said "recognize me," for it was at that point that John was struck with what might have been the most brilliant and most idiotic idea he had ever entertained. It wasn't perfect, but it was a far sight better than jumping rooftops.

"Wait here," said John before he disappeared up the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

_[AN: I think I should probably say that this whole thing is post Reichenbach, and after Sherlock presumably reconciles with John and they're back to doing cases again. Just saying.]_

At first, Sherlock would have none of it. It was only through a combination of vows that the deerstalker incident would not repeat itself and reminders of the number of times over that Sherlock "owed" him for pretending to be dead that Sherlock finally acquiesced.

"This is the most idiotic venture I have ever partaken in," he said irritably as he took off his coat.

"More idiotic than the time you tried to pretend you were a sixteen-year-old Moravian princess?" said John as he removed his black windbreaker.

"That was reconnaissance, far more dignified than this," said Sherlock, as he put on John's windbreaker. The sleeves were too short, but thankfully he was thin enough to zip it closed in the front.

"Right," said John, as he donned Sherlock's coat, "now pop up the collar and button it closed. It's not a very distinctive look, so you'll have to sell it. I'd tell you to stand tall and look at everyone disdainfully, but-"

"And what are you going to do?" said Sherlock.

"I'm only I-recognize-your-face-but-can't-remember-your-name . All I need to do is hide my face and we're in the clear," said John, as he put on the wide-brimmed brown hat and pulled it low over his eyes. After one final adjustment to his scarf, John grabbed the door handle and said, "Remember: the resemblance is uncanny, so you've nothing to worry about, but don't be surprised if a few people ask you to take photographs."

"Let's get this over with," said Sherlock, and with that John opened the door and they plunged into the crowd.

John's plan could not have worked more perfectly. As they pressed through the mass of people, Sherlock got a few shouts of "Nice cosplay!" and one or two requests for pictures taken, but no one recognized him as Sherlock Holmes. His resemblance to Khan from _Star Trek: Into Darkness _was so striking he could not have worn a better disguise if he had donned a Cyberman suit. And, of course, he did his part flawlessly to sell the disguise by being nothing more than his usual disdainful self. John even heard one person mutter something about "not breaking character" as Sherlock knocked a camera out of his hand. As for John, the only quip his fourth doctor get-up got was a quick, "the coat's supposed to be brown, mate!" somewhere to his left. The scarf and hat he'd borrowed from the girls upstairs served well enough, though, and within two minutes they were both safely on the other side of the crowd and out of sight.

"Well, that went well," said John.

"Never again," muttered Sherlock as he tossed John his windbreaker, although he was intently focused on his iphone now, and remained so until they could hail a cab. Inside the cab, Sherlock was still furiously tapping on his phone.

Watson, partly in annoyance for not having his stroke of brilliance recognized, broke in with, "I have to say I'm almost surprised you weren't recognized by anyonw. The resemblance is there, but I'd have thought one person in a crowd that big—"

"Yet again you see but do not observe," said Sherlock, continuing to fiddle with his iphone and totally oblivious to John's compliment-fishing. "The crowd was too big. The convention isn't set to end until tonight. I can see a few devoted fans abandoning it to come to the crime scene but that many means that something drove them from the convention center, and if I could navigate this," Sherlock struck the back of his phone with the palm of his hand, "positively labyrinthine DoctorCon website I could find out what."

They were on the walkway of the Tennant house when Sherlock finally put his iphone away. Watson was about to ask what he'd found but before he could, Sherlock rang the doorbell. A petite and pregnant blonde woman opened peeked out from behind a crack in the door. She had obviously been crying very recently, and there was a small toddler clinging to her leg behind her.

"Haven't I answered enough questions," she said bitterly, "or are you here to steal a souvenir while you investigate." It was a statement, not a question.

"Mrs. Tennant—" said Sherlock.

"Moffat, and you're clearly not police or you'd have known that," said the woman, and she started to push the door closed. Sherlock stuck his foot in just in time.

"Mrs. Moffat, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I am investigating your husband's disappearance."

"So will half his fandom by the end of the day. You're just early. Now please get out or I'm calling the police."

"You mind if I do first?" said John, holding up his phone. "Inspector LeStrade will probably want to know that you turned out the detectives he sent."

"Detectives, hm? Where's your badges." Again, a statement, not a question. The toddler behind her sat down on the ground and started playing with something John couldn't see.

"Mrs. Moffat—" Sherlock began.

"For the last time, get away from—"

"—your daughter is about to swallow a marble." Sherlock finished.

The woman turned and, sure enough, the toddler on the floor was bringing a small white marble closer to her open mouth. She immediately took it out of her hand, and the tot started to cry.

"Now," continued Sherlock, "I need two things from you, and then my colleague and I will happily leave you in peace. Your husband was in a hurry to leave the convention center last night at 8:00. Was he rushing home and if not, where was he going?"

The woman paused, as if considering whether to slam the door, before responding, "David called around noon yesterday to say he would be coming home late. He might've said where he was going, but Olivia was throwing peas across the kitchen and, frankly, I didn't care enough to listen. Something work-related. I think he said he couldn't wait to tell everyone, so it must have been something good."

"Interesting," said Sherlock as he turned and walked back down the path to the street.

"Um, thanks," said John walking backward, before he turned to walk out as well. The woman, a little shocked that he had actually kept his word to limit himself to two questions and no souvenirs, shrugged her shoulders, mumbled "weirdos," and closed the door.

Once they were in the cab (Sherlock directed it to Scotland Yard), John turned to his companion, who was staring intently at nothing with his fingers pressed together against his lips and said, "I need to ask you something."

"Doesn't fit," said Sherlock.

"What doesn't fit?" John asked obligingly.

"Any of it," said Sherlock, "he was going to sign a contract last night committing him to star in a something called Broadchurch, but that's exactly the kind of thing a fan would want him to do, to see more of him onscreen. Why would she abduct him to prevent that, and why now, right before he was going to announce it to his fanbase?"

"Sherlock—" John started.

"Honestly, John?" said Sherlock incredulously, "I thought this of all clues would be the one you found. It was in the paper this morning, in the entertainment section you were reading. 'David Tennant in Talks to Be in Broadchurch.'"

"You were reading over my shoulder," said John, matter-of-factly.

"It doesn't just switch off, you know. Anyway, as for the second part, that's the reason for the crowd. According to DoctorCon's almost completely innavigable website, Mr. Tennant was going to appear at a panel this afternoon. Once they heard he'd been kidnapped, the fans who showed up just for him decided to leave and play Poirot instead."

"That's brilliant," said John steadily, "but not what I was going to ask."

"Not interested," said Sherlock, who was clearly resentful of being dragged from the mystery-solving place in his head.

"Did you drop the marble the little girl was going to eat?" asked John.

"Of course I did. We weren't going to get anywhere with Mrs. Moffat unless she saw us as there to help, and the quickest way was to save her daughter, who had sores on her knuckles from forcefully cramming so many odd things into her mouth, from choking on something."

"She could have died," said John, trying to stay calm.

"That's why I stopped her before she could eat it, of course," said Sherlock, "Besides, if she had started choking, you know infant CPR."

"Sherlock," said John, "if you ever endanger a child on an investigation, I'm never coming with you on a case ever again."

Sherlock turned his eyes toward John briefly, before returning them to the window.

"Understood," he said. Clearly he was too eager to get in his mind palace to bother talking the point at the moment, and for once John was grateful for it.

At Scotland Yard, Sherlock worked his way up to LeStrade's floor and found him walking out of his office with Sargeant Sally Donovan in tow.

"Hello freak," she said in greeting.

"Ah, Sherlock, I was just about to call you," said LeStrade, "chemical analysis is back on that rope fiber of yours."

"Already?" said John.

"Celebrity case. Things move faster for them. Anyway, nothing helpful on it I'm afraid. Generic black nylon from generic black nylon rope, available at pretty much any place that sells rope."

"Anderson's botched it again, I see. I'll look at the chemical results later. Right now, I'm here to ask if there's any progress on the fanletters," said Sherlock.

"Fanletters?" said John to Sargeant Donovan quietly, not wishing to interrupt twice.

"Standard protocol," she said, "Any time anything happens to a celebrity—murder, abduction, broken fingernail, anything—the police ask for the celebrity's fanletters to see if they can find a loony threatening to do it."

As she was saying this, LeStrade said, "No luck yet, I'm afraid. Would you like to go into the letter room yourself?"

"Please," said Sherlock, and the four of them made their way over to what was ordinarily a meeting room. Inside were five policemen opening, scanning, and tossing letters into two large baskets labeled, "Moony" and "Loony." The latter had about 12 letters in it, and the prior was almost full. Beside each of the officers were several enormous bags of letters.

As Sherlock and John entered the room, LeStrade said to the officers, "1 o'clock, ladies and gentlemen."

"Thank god," said a plump, hairy officer with several large rings on his fingers as he began to stand, "if I read one more 12-year-old girl from Bath or Rhyl or wherever requesting a picture of his sausage, I'm going to request an official address from the Yard asking all parents in Britain to have a serious talk with their daughters."

"Where are you all going?" asked Sherlock, genuinely confused.

"Lunch break," said a willowy woman with bushy brown hair.

"How on earth can you eat—"

"It's alright, Sherlock," said John, who pulled up a seat, picked up a letter opener, and continued the officers' work. He knew Sherlock would be less likely to make a scene if at least one person was reading the letters, especially if that one person were he. And, sure enough, everyone else left while Sherlock contemplated, and ultimately decided against chastising them. He pulled up a chair and started to go through the "Loony" bin. Within 30 seconds, he had placed all of them in a pile next to him; clearly he thought none of them were more than run-of-the-mill weirdos. Once he'd done this, he pulled his knees up to his chin and started staring into space intently.

"You're not going to read any more?" asked John.

"Shut up," said Sherlock, and the discussion closed.

15, then 30, then 45 minutes passed with nothing whatsoever happening. Sherlock continued to stare, and John opened, scanned, and sorted letter after letter. The plump officer was right; there were an alarming number of girls in the U.K. that needed a serious talk from their parents on subjects ranging from "What not to say to people you don't even know," to basic human anatomy. The lunch hour was almost over before anything changed.

John was reading a letter from a fan who was asking why no one ever wrote a description of the Silence while they were looking at them, so that people would at least have an idea of what they were looking at when they saw them the first time, when John said, "huh."

Sherlock instantly snapped out of his reverie. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," said John, as he tossed the letter into the "Moony" bin.

Sherlock jumped out of his chair, snatched the letter out of the air and began to read.

"This means nothing to me. What does it mean to you, John? What were you thinking when you read this?" he asked intently.

"It's really nothing—"

"I am the sole judge of what is nothing in this partnership."

Once John was sure that Sherlock was serious, he continued, "The writer was talking about something in the show that didn't even happen until David Tennant had left it. I was wondering if he had been paying attention at all to the show, since it's a silly mistake to make. Sorry, why is this important?"

"You said 'huh' in that exact same tone and inflection when we first watched the video tape back in 221B this morning. At first I thought you were reacting the ridiculous nature of the crime, but now I know you were noticing something. What exactly were you thinking when you said that, John?" said Sherlock.

"Let me think—"

"Think faster."

"Alright, alright! Er… yes, I was thinking that it was odd she said 'Got you' at the end. See, in the show, Angels can't talk. I was thinking it was odd for someone obsessed enough with Dr. Who to abduct David Tennant to then turn around and make a mistake like that."

Sherlock's face relaxed into the familiar "of course" expression John had come to know very well, but he said nothing as he turned around and walked out of the room yelling, "LeStrade!"


End file.
